The Vintage Summer Wedding (3 page)

If there was one thing Anna hated, it was antiques. Anything that wasn’t new, anything with money off, anything that had to be haggled for or marked down.

All it did was remind her of being wrapped up against the cold, having her mittens hanging from her coat sleeves, her dad bundling her up at five in the morning in the passenger seat of his van, a flask of hot chocolate and a half-stale donut wrapped in a napkin that she ate with shaking hands as he scrapped the ice off the inside and outside of the window of his Ford Transit before trundling off to Ardingly, Newark or some other massive antique market. She had inherited her mother’s intolerance of the cold. The fiery Spanish blood that coursed through her veins wasn’t inclined to enjoy shivering in snow-crisp fields, her fingers losing their feeling, her damp lips freezing in the early morning frost as she trudged past other people’s mouldy, damp crap for sale on wonky trestle tables.

As she edged her way through the maze of a shop, a woman bumbled out of the back room with a plate of Gingernuts and two mugs of stewed tea clanking together, their surfaces advertising various antique markets and fairs.

‘I made you one anyway,’ she said, pushing her glasses up her nose with her upper arm as she pushed the tea onto the glass counter.

Mrs Beedle. How could Anna have forgotten? Huge, dressed in a smock that could have doubled as a tent, round glasses like an owl, white shirt with a Peter Pan collar, red T-Bar shoes like Annie wore in the film, a million bracelets clanging up her wrist and pockets bursting with tape measures, pencils, bits of paper and tissues. Her greying hair pulled back into an Anne of Green Gables style do, the front pushed forward like a mini-beehive and a bun held with kirby grips.

‘Anna Whitehall, now look at you.’ She leant her bulk against the counter, took out her hanky and wiped her brow. ‘Still as much of a pain in the arse as you always were, I imagine.’

‘Hello, Mrs Beedle,’ she said, running a finger along the brass-counter edge.

Mrs Beedle narrowed her eyes as if she could see straight inside her. ‘Mmm, yes,’ she murmured.

Anna licked her lips under the scrutiny of her gaze.

‘Now, remember, I’m doing your father a favour, I don’t want you here. Got that?’ She took a slurp of tea. ‘And why he wants you here, I have no idea.’

Anna didn’t say anything, just pushed her shoulders back a bit further.

‘To my mind, you’re a jumped-up, spoilt brat who’s caused more harm than good. But, I’ll tolerate you. As long as there’s none of your London crap, or—’ She picked up a Gingernut, ‘Any of that attitude.’

‘I’m not sixteen any more, Mrs Beedle.’ Anna said with a half sneer, her hand on her hip.

Mrs Beedle’s lip quivered in a mocking smile. ‘That’s exactly the attitude I’m referring to.’ She dunked her biscuit into her tea and sucked some of the liquid off it, before saying, ‘So what can you do?’

Anna thought back to the Opera House. She was very good at mingling at parties, casually introducing people, she could calm down an over-wrought star with aplomb, she could conjure a masterful quote out of thin air for any production, she could throw a pragmatic response into a heated meeting. And her desk was impeccable, perfect, spotless. A place for everything and everything in its place, her mother would say. ‘I’m very organised,’ she said in the end.

Mrs Beedle snorted. Then, clicking her fingers in a gesture that meant for Anna to follow, she pulled back the curtain behind her to reveal Anna’s worst nightmare. A stockroom filled with stacks and stacks of crap, piled sky-high like the legacy of a dead hoarder.

Anna swallowed. She had imagined spending most of the day sitting behind the desk reading
Grazia
. ‘What do I do with it?’

‘You organise it.’ Mrs Beedle laughed, backing out so that Anna was left alone in the damp-smelling dumping ground and settling herself down in the big orange armchair next to the desk, a thin marmalade cat appearing and twirling through her legs. ‘I’ve been meaning to do it for yonks.’

Anna opened her mouth to say something, but Mrs Beedle cut her off. ‘You know, I think I might actually enjoy this more than I thought I would.’

There had been a time, Anna thought two hours later, as she carefully plucked another horsebrass from a random assortment box and put it into the cardboard box on the shelf she had marked, BRASS, that she had had an assistant to do all this type of manual work in her life. In fact, she’d had two. One of them, Kim, she’d rather forget. She had given her her first break and, in return, the ungrateful brat had stolen her contact book and then promptly resigned and was now clawing her way up the ballet world while Anna was holding what looked like a Mexican death skull between finger and thumb.

Anna had had people to move boxes and post parcels and send emails to the people she’d rather avoid. Her status had defined her. Had made her who she was. She liked the fact she had her own office with her name on the plaque on the door. She liked the fact people came in to ask her advice or crept in in tears and shut the door to bitch about some mean old cow in another department. She liked the signature on the bottom of her email and the fact that she didn’t follow most of her Twitter followers back.

She patted the beads of sweat from her face with a folded piece of tissue she’d got from the bathroom and blew her hair out of her eyes. The room had heated up like a furnace and she felt like a rotisserie chicken slowly browning.

She had been somebody. And it didn’t matter that at about three o’clock, most days, she had stood in a cubicle in the toilets holding a Kleenex to her eyes after catching a glimpse of the dancers rehearsing and thinking,
That should have been me.
Before blowing her nose, telling herself that this was just life, this is what happens, this feeling is weakness and you’re not weak Anna Whitehall. Then calling up Seb, all bright-eyed and smiling voice, asking if he wanted to go for cocktails after work, her treat.

Anna lifted up another brass object: a revolting frame shaped like a horse-shoe, and thought of her old air-conditioning unit, her ergonomically designed chair, the fresh-cut flowers in her office, her snug new season pencil skirt and a crippling pair of beautiful stilettos.

She wanted to grab her old boss by the shoulders and shout,
Look at me, now! Look what you’ve made me become, you stupid idiot! Why did you have to scale down the PR department? Why?

‘Everything all right back there?’ Mrs Beedle had pulled back the curtain and was watching Anna as her lips moved during her silent tirade. The cat was curled up under Mrs Beedle’s arm, nestled on the plump outline of her hip. A wry smile was twitching the woman’s lip as she said, ‘Christ, you still stand in third position.’ She shook her head.’ Well I never, you’ll be doing pliés in here next.’

Anna, who hadn’t noticed how she was standing, moved immediately and leant up against the stack behind her.

‘Haven’t got far, have you?’ Mrs Beedle peered at her work.

Anna frowned. ‘I thought I’d done quite a lot. Look. I have boxes for all the different items. Here‒’ She waved her hand along one of the lines of shelves. ‘China, figurines, brasses, decorative plates, medals…’

‘Maybe.’ Mrs Beedle said with a shrug. ‘I’m going for lunch and, as it’s so quiet, I’m going to shut the shop and make a couple of deliveries. I’ll be back, what? Three-thirty? Four?’

‘What should I do?’ Anna asked, her forehead beading with sweat, her shorts dusty, her fingers rough with dirt, her Shellac chipping.

‘Just carry on as you are. No point stopping now,’ Mrs Beedle said and backed out, shaking her head at the marmalade cat. ‘She has a lot to learn about work this one, doesn’t she? A lot to learn. Always the little princess.’

Chapter Three

‘That’s it, I fucking hate it here.’ Anna was sitting opposite Seb in the King’s Head. She could feel the dirt and scum from the shop nestling into her pores.

The pub was as she remembered. Flock wallpaper in red velvet and gold, and a deep-maroon carpet worn threadbare by the end of the bar where the regulars stood. The bar top was dark mahogany, shiny under the low glass lamps and dappled with patches of split beer. Silver tankards hung from hooks around the lip of the bar top, swinging below the spirits that were mostly different types of whiskey. One side of the room was booth seats, and a smattering of round wooden tables. At the back was a dining room that had placemats with hunting scenes or ducks flying.

‘Here, drink this, it’ll make you feel better.’ Seb put a glass of yellow wine down in front of her.

She held it up between finger and thumb, inspected the colour and said, ‘I very much doubt it.’

Seb tried to hide a smirk. ‘It can’t have been that bad.’

‘I don’t think I can talk about it.’ She sighed, taking a sip. Then, unable not to, said, ‘She made me clear out the stockroom. Urgh, look at this, sing-along piano tonight.’ She picked up a flier that was resting between the mustard and tomato ketchup bottle on their table.

Seb took a sip of his pint and read over the list of songs. ‘Knees Up Mother Brown. It’s like the good old days.’

Anna took another sip and winced. ‘I did a really bad job.’

Seb glanced up. ‘Why?’

‘Because I didn’t want to do it.’

‘Anna.’ His brow creased. ‘You kind of need this job. We seriously don’t have any money and if you want a wedding…’

‘Sebastian.’ She leant forward. ‘I get six pounds fifty an hour. Whether I have this job or not, it’s not going to cover a wedding. No, I have to get back to London, I have to do some serious looking.’

‘Come on. You know there’s nothing out there at the moment, and the commute will really cost.’ He traced the beads of condensation down his glass. ‘You’re just going to have to get on with it.’

‘What if I can’t?’ she said, and he sighed like he was exasperated with her. The sound took her by surprise, she’d never heard it before. This wasn’t the way their relationship worked. Seb adored her. That was their dynamic. It had been since the moment she had walked out of Pret a Manger with her sushi and can of Yoga Bunny and he had walked straight into her, fresh from his interview at Whitechapel Boys’ School, fumbled his briefcase and said, ‘Wow, god, Anna Whitehall. Didn’t expect to bump into you of all people. Wow.’

Really all she wanted now was for him to hate being back as much as she did.

As the fan in the corner of the pub whirred away like it might take off, circulating the stale beer-soaked air, they sat in silence for a second. Murmurs of laughter drifted in from the tables outside the front that Anna hadn’t wanted to sit at in case she got bitten by mosquitoes.

‘So how was your day?’ she said in the end.

Seb held his hands out wide, ‘Now she asks!’ he said with a smile. He was good at changing the atmosphere, at not holding a grudge. His aim in life was for everyone to get along, not like Anna who could cling onto a grudge like nobody’s business. But, as usual, she felt herself get sucked into the lines that crinkled around his eyes as he smiled and winked at her across the table.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Did you save any poor, badly educated children?’

Seb was back in Nettleton to make a difference. To give back. To do for the new Nettleton generation what their teachers had done for him. Anna could barely remember a teacher, let alone anything good they’d done for her. She could vaguely summon a memory of being whacked with a lacrosse stick accidentally on purpose by Mrs McNamara for calling her a lesbian. And the satisfaction she’d felt when she’d handed her a note from her ballet teacher exempting her from all school sport because it clashed with her training and the development of her flexibility.

‘I made a huge impression,’ Seb joked. ‘And young minds across the village are rejoicing that I have arrived as head of year.’

A female voice cut in next to them, ‘I’m sure they are, Seb, no doubt about it.’

‘Jackie, hey, how are you? Come and join us.’ Seb edged along his bench seat so Jackie could sit down.

‘Anna.’ Jackie said by way of greeting, with a distinct lack of emotion.

‘Jackie.’ Anna replied with similar flatness. Their relationship was as such that they’d spent much of their youth circling each other, snogging each other’s boyfriends and generally pissing each other off without ever fully acknowledging their mutual dislike.

‘So how are you?’ Jackie ran her tongue along her lips, then grinned, ‘Never made it to New York, then?’

‘No,’ Anna winced a smile, cocking her head to one side and then saying sweetly, ‘I see you didn’t either. Ever make it out of Nettleton?’

Jackie shrugged. ‘Everything I need is here.’

Anna blew out a breath in disbelief.

‘Whereas you...I mean, what was it we were meant to see? Your name in lights at the Lincoln Center? Wasn’t that always the dream?’

Anna pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘I grew too tall to be a dancer.’

Jackie sat back and crossed her legs. ‘Shame.’

As the air between them hummed, Seb clapped his hands and said, ‘So, what does everyone want to drink?’

As Jackie said she’d die for a gin and tonic, Anna hitched her bag onto her shoulder, stood up and said, ‘I’ll get them.’ Just to get away from the table.

She stood, tapping her nails on the bar.
Her name in lights at the Lincoln Center.
It was like a jolt.
New York, Lincoln Center.
Her mum had said, holding up an advert listing the New York City Ballet’s winter programming in the paper.
If I hadn’t got pregnant, that’s where I would have been. Imagine being on that stage. Anna, that’s the pinnacle.

When she heard laughter behind her, Anna swung round thinking that it must be about her, but saw instead a couple in the corner enjoying a shared joke. She blew out a breath and tried to relax. But she was like an animal on high alert, poised and ready. At her table Seb and Jackie were looking at something on Jackie’s phone and giggling. Anna found herself envying Seb’s effortless charm, the ease with which he slipped back into relationships. The way he could be so instantly, unguardedly, involved. Not that she’d ever admit it.